an online magazine for poetry & short fiction

you can’t smash the light but you can scatter it, now in petals across the floor, morning glories fallen too soon. tell me about the way the trieste rises always towards the light. tell me about the jellyfish, their long arms like butcheries in the salt sea. the fish wear shark teeth around their neck like small children do. the small children walk on the water carrying the fish in baskets. there is an ocean in england where no one knows your name. there are two seas in my heart that overlap and no one knows where. there is a swan dinosaur that guards the place. meet me there.

Alisha Bruton builds prosthetic limbs in Portland, OR, a profession which she may or may not have chosen for the poems it would produce. She is a poetry reader for the Burnside Review, and has been published in the Portland Review, Diagram, and Open Face Sandwich.